


F is for Formal Wear

by Janieshi



Series: Alphabet [6]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Dancing, F/M, Identity Reveal, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Masks, Minor Original Character(s), Relationship Reveal, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-15
Packaged: 2019-10-09 16:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17410286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janieshi/pseuds/Janieshi
Summary: In which General Grumman is the sly old fox we all know and love, Hawkeye loses a bet because her grandfather is a filthy cheater, Havoc is callously thrown to the cougars, and Mustang makes a not-actually-that-surprising discovery.





	F is for Formal Wear

_Formal Wear/ˈfɔːməl wɛə/ noun - clothing designed for or customarily worn on occasions, such as tuxedos and evening gowns._

* * *

 

“A ‘Black and White’ gala?” Colonel Mustang asked, dumbstruck. “With all due respect, sir, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Afraid not,” General Grumman replied, smirking faintly. “The taxpayers may pay our salaries, but we do rely on the revenue generated from fundraisers like these military balls.”

“Rely on—? Don’t those funds only go towards the purchase of non-essential equipment?” Mustang argued.

“Yes, ‘non-essential equipment’ such as up-to-date technology. Do you realize that some of our smaller outposts are still using the same comm systems I operated when I was a cadet?”

“Point taken,” Mustang grimaced at the very idea. Those comm systems had been obsolete for decades. No wonder Sergeant Fuery got so twitchy whenever they had missions in remote areas. “I understand the need for proper equipment, sir,” he said. “But…are you really willing to prostitute your subordinates for the cause?”

“Well, not _literally_ , of course,” Grumman protested. “Unless one of those wealthy older women makes you an offer you can’t refuse,” he amended, hiding a smile at the horrified look on Mustang’s face. “Some of them are quite good-looking, I can assure you. And I know more than a few who would jump at the chance to seduce the infamous Hero of Ishval.”

Mustang groaned, but managed to avoid slamming his head against his superior’s desk.

“You’re making attendance mandatory, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t really a question. Mustang had known as soon as the old man brought it up that he’d be ordered to attend.

“Only for the State Alchemists,” Grumman confirmed cheerfully. “Er, State Alchemists over the age of eighteen, that is, so our young friend Fullmetal is off the hook this time. But we certainly want all of our other well-known faces out there; show you off a bit.”

“Age limit, huh? There goes my only chance of entertainment,” Mustang grumbled. If he was being forced to play nice with the rich and famous, he would’ve at least liked the chance to make the shrimp miserable in turn.

“You may, however, choose one other member of your team to share in your misery—” Grumman was saying.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye,” Mustang interjected, perking up. Grumman snorted.

“— _except_ for First Lieutenant Hawkeye,” he continued serenely, as though Mustang hadn’t spoken. Mustang’s face fell. “Her skills will be more useful in another capacity,” Grumman explained. “Plus, we need a few more unattached gentlemen in attendance. There’ll be several wealthy widows and neglected matriarchs who might be more easily persuaded to loosen their purse strings if they’re properly attended to by handsome young men.”

“I didn’t choose the members of my team for their personal charms,” Mustang remarked dryly.

He was having a hard time picturing _any_ of them flirting with or flattering the kind of guests likely to be at this accursed gala. Honestly, Hawkeye was the only one who’d even stand a chance, with her proven ability to act like an empty-headed bit of fluff when the occasion called for subterfuge. And her poker face was nigh on legendary.

“Fair enough,” Grumman conceded. “Yet each of your men possesses various attributes that would arguably appeal to this crowd, if only as a novelty.”

“I’m not sure I follow,” Mustang frowned.

“Well, Second Lieutenant Breda has a rather dry wit and a tendency to speak his mind plainly, which would be a definite departure from the sycophantic obeisance the members of our guest list are so accustomed to. His candor might be a refreshing change for them.”

“If it didn’t cause a scene,” Mustang argued. “Breda doesn’t sugarcoat _anything_. Some unsuspecting woman will try fishing for a compliment on her dress or her jewels or what have you, and he’ll end up insulting the lady. And probably get himself thrown out on his ass for his trouble.”

Grumman laughed.

“All right, then, what about your young sergeant? He has the sort of baby-faced freshness that makes people like him on sight, and although he’s a bit quiet, he certainly needn’t say much. A lot of older women go for the innocent and naïve type. Or there’s your warrant officer. Falman, isn’t it? He’s extremely intelligent, which could potentially be an asset at a fundraising event like this…he could cite all sorts of facts and figures supporting our need for better and faster technology.”

Mustang thought of Fuery’s stuttering shyness around people he didn’t know well, and Falman’s distinct discomfort in social situations. And an odd sort of protectiveness welled up in his chest.

“I don’t know...” he said slowly, tapping his fingers on the desk. “Perhaps Lieutenant Havoc would be a better choice. I don’t think he’d mind being fawned over as much as the others would. And I suppose he has an unpolished sort of charm about him.”

“Ah, yes, he’s the one with a string of failed relationships, isn’t he?” Grumman asked. “Clearly he’s alluring enough to draw them in, even if he can’t always keep them. He’s a good-looking lad, too; an excellent specimen of the ‘All-Amestrian Hero’ type,” he mused.

Mustang opened his mouth to ask what that was supposed to mean, but closed it just as quickly, as he realized that he probably didn’t want to know.

“I guess I’d better go and break it to him,” he said instead, rising.

“Oh, and Mustang? Just one other thing,” Grumman said, a little sheepishly. “The Black and White Ball...it’s also a masquerade.”

“Of course it is,” Mustang sighed.

 

* * *

_The evening of the ball_

 

“Have mercy, Havoc, I’m begging you,” Mustang moaned.

“For the last time, Colonel, I’m not going to shoot you! Not even _non-fatally_!” Havoc hissed at him. “Not only would Lieutenant Hawkeye murder me when she found out, but then I’d have to go in there all by myself!”

Mustang mumbled something under his breath about being trotted out like a show pony and fiddled with the simple black domino mask he’d chosen to wear with his perfectly tailored tux. Havoc’s mask was nearly identical, although he had worn a handsome three piece suit in lieu of a tuxedo.

“Hey, at least you look good in this formal wear crap,” Havoc said resentfully, tugging at the starched collar of his white dress shirt. “I should _never_ have listened to Breda; this monkey suit looks ridiculous on a guy like me.”

Mustang smiled a little at that.

“You actually clean up quite nicely, Second Lieutenant,” he said. “Those rich old bats will be all over you.”

“Yippie,” Havoc said dryly. Mustang’s grin widened. For a moment there, Havoc had sounded exactly like Lieutenant Hawkeye.

“You’ll do fine,” he said soothingly. “Just be polite, smile a lot, and pretend that everything they say is fascinating.”

“Easier said than done,” Havoc groaned. Mustang clapped a hand on his shoulder, empathetic. Then he straightened his spine, squared his shoulders, and faced the door with all the dignity he could muster.

“Into the breach,” he murmured. At his side, Havoc sighed heavily, and reached for the door.

“My, my, could that possibly be the renowned _Flame_ Alchemist?” a husky female voice said from behind them. Havoc stiffened, but Mustang turned to face the new arrival with his suave and charming persona firmly in place.

“And here I thought the point of donning a mask was to render the wearer unidentifiable, if only for one night,” he said silkily.

The woman, who wore a low-cut gown of rustling black silk, simpered and coyly adjusted her jewel encrusted mask. In doing so, she afforded Mustang a good look at the signet ring she wore, which he recognized at once as belonging to an influential businessman he’d met in passing.

“Although I must say, guessing which face is concealed by which mask _is_ part of the fun,” he added. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Holmwood?”

“I doubt someone as famous as the Hero of Ishval could remain anonymous for long,” she said, beaming. “But however did you recognize _me_ , my dear boy?”

“You and your husband have been all over the society pages in recent years, madam. I’d know you anywhere,” he lied, winking. “Most unfortunately, these masks not only fail to fully conceal one’s identity, but they also deprive me of the chance to admire your renowned beauty up close.”

“Oh my goodness, you really are as charming as they all say,” the second woman tittered, hiding her face behind the black sequined mask that matched her black sequined dress.

“Are you ladies unattended this evening?” Mustang asked, turning slightly to include other middle-aged woman, who was less stout though more horse-faced than her extremely wealthy friend.

“My husband is away on business,” Mrs. Holmwood replied coquettishly. “So I convinced my dear Miss Harker to come along in his place.”

“Then please, allow Second Lieutenant Havoc and myself to escort you ladies inside,” Mustang said, offering his arm to Mrs. Holmwood.

Belatedly and a little less naturally, Havoc imitated his colonel, offering an arm to Miss Harker. In spite of Havoc’s stiffness, both women were charmed, and they cooed and preened as the ‘handsome young gentlemen’ steered them indoors.

For the better part of the next hour, Mustang charmed and sweet-talked and buttered up as many of the spoiled filthy rich as he had the misfortune to come across. Tiresome work, but he wouldn’t deny that he was very good at it, and he made sure to drop plenty of hints about how hardworking and woefully underfunded their rural outposts were these days.

He had at least managed to avoid the dance floor. Havoc was not so lucky, having been dragged there nearly the moment he entered by a heavy-set redhead dressed in a tight white frock liberally studded with rhinestones.

Mustang chanced a look around the ballroom as he snagged a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, finally spotting his subordinate dancing with a determined-looking brunette. She was probably old enough to be his mother, but she had a fantastic figure, and Havoc seemed to be enjoying himself. At least a little.  

Just as Mustang wondered when General Grumman was going to make an appearance, he spotted the older man standing on the opposite side of the room.  Better to be _seen_ before he tried to make a break for it, Mustang thought grimly, and he downed his champagne.

As he slowly made his way towards his commander’s group, he realized that the General was accompanied by a much younger woman, whose arm was tucked through his quite possessively.

“And just who the hell is _she_?” Mustang thought, staring somewhat shamelessly. “She’s less than half his age, the sly old dog!”

Whoever the young lady was, she had a lovely hourglass figure, with flared hips in pleasing proportion to a generous bust and a slender waistline. She was dressed in a short-sleeved white cheongsam, vaguely reminiscent of a Xingese bridal costume. But her hair (loose curls pinned up and away from her face) was a delicate corn-silk blonde, suggesting Amestrian heritage. The floor-length skirt was slit to the middle of her thigh, revealing long, well-toned legs accentuated by a pair of lethal stiletto heels. Sadly, nearly two-thirds of her face was concealed by an ornate mask in white and gold, leaving only her lips and chin exposed.

As Mustang swiftly cataloged her various attributes, Grumman and his lady friend moved away from the cluster of people they’d been speaking to, and Grumman caught sight of him.

“Ah, Mustang, my boy! There you are,” the general greeted him with a foxy little smile. The young woman turned her head in Mustang’s direction as well, and her lips (painted a deep rosy pink) curved very slightly upwards. Intrigued, Mustang drew closer. Why did her smile seem so familiar?

“Good evening, sir. Miss,” he said, acknowledging the woman.

“Elizabeth, dear, this is Colonel Roy Mustang,” Grumman said. “Mustang, I believe I’ve occasionally mentioned my granddaughter?”

“Your granddaughter? Yes, of course,” Roy said, smoothly concealing his surprise. Elizabeth was far more attractive than the woman he’d pictured each time Grumman had alluded to the existence of a granddaughter. If _this_ was the woman Grumman kept teasing him about…“It’s a pleasure, Miss Grumman,” he added.

The woman smiled and offered him her hand, but didn’t speak. He had the disconcerting impression that she was laughing at him. Meanwhile, Grumman was eyeing something over Mustang’s left shoulder.

“I see Lieutenant Havoc has had no end of willing dance partners,” he remarked coyly. “Personally I don’t care for the exercise, but the ladies certainly seem to enjoy it. In fact, Elizabeth was just expressing a desire to dance, weren’t you, dear?”

“Would you allow me the honor?” Mustang said at once, with his most charming smile.

Never mind that Grumman was clearly trying to throw them together, without even an attempt at subtlety. Roy couldn’t let such a golden opportunity go to waste.

Elizabeth’s lips parted, but before she could demur (or outright protest), her grandfather gave her an encouraging little nudge in Mustang’s direction.

“Wonderful! Roy is an excellent dancer, my dear, you shan’t be disappointed,” he said, winking. “You kids have fun!”

Elizabeth turned her head to shoot her grandfather what was probably a very dirty look, but she allowed Mustang to lead her to the dance floor without a word.

As Mustang took her hand in his, he realized that she was keeping her face slightly averted from his, and a tiny kernel of suspicion took root. But as the music swelled, the chance for conversation was lost, and he focused his attention on the dance.

Elizabeth was an elegant dancer, her movements sure and graceful. She responded to Roy’s gentle guidance as though they’d danced together before, and that niggling feeling in the back of his mind grew. The foxtrot segued into a waltz, and more than one head turned when they glided past, each equally conscious that they danced very well together.

As the song drew to an end, Mustang carefully maneuvered their steps so that they ended up near the open door that led outside. There was just _something_ about this woman…he was dying to have a private conversation with her, and that would never happen on the dance floor.

But right as he was about to suggest a stroll through the gardens (which were romantically lit by paper lanterns), he spotted Havoc being drawn in that very direction by his brunette lady-friend. Elizabeth noticed as well, and raised a hand to her mouth to hide a gentle laugh.

“Uh-oh. Do you think my subordinate needs rescuing?” Mustang asked his companion, teasingly. She shook her head, still smiling. “No, he seems content, doesn’t he?” Mustang laughed. “I’m glad. I was worried that he’d be miserable at this little shindig. To be perfectly honest, I would’ve preferred to have my First Lieutenant here with me tonight, but your grandfather insisted I choose one of my male teammates.”

Elizabeth titled her head in an inquiring sort of way, which seemed oddly familiar….but, no, it couldn’t be.

Could it?

“Apparently he was hoping to stack the deck with a few eligible bachelors,” Mustang confided, steering Elizabeth casually out into the garden with a hand on the small of her back. As they made their way along the lamp-lit path, he explained how the general had weighed the various attributes of his subordinates, from the appeal of a socially awkward bookworm like Falman to the innocent baby-panda look of Fuery.

“And while Havoc does manage to pull off the evening wear, I’m quite sure Hawkeye’s costume would have eclipsed his efforts, and outshone most of the women here as well. Besides, I’d have liked for her to have the chance to let her hair down a little,” he added, chancing a glance at his companion to gauge her reaction.

Her lips were quirked in a small, mysterious little smile, and Mustang’s heart stuttered in his chest.

He knew that smile. Didn’t he? He saw it so rarely these days...

_My granddaughter,_ Grumman’s voice echoed in his memory. There was no _way_ this woman was really…but Grumman might have been lying. What reason did he have to lie outright, though? Even if it were some sort of ruse, surely he trusted Colonel Mustang enough to explain the reasoning behind it. So why would he have said she was…? But no! He was acting as if Grumman was really her –no, it was ridiculous. How could he even entertain the idea? It was completely impossible!

Except that it wasn’t.

“Your costume is very well chosen,” Mustang remarked casually, as they passed slowly beneath a string of particularly bright paper lanterns. “You look like a bride.”

Again, that enigmatic smile. And then, _finally_ , she spoke.

“The dress was my grandfather’s idea, in fact,” she admitted.

And when he heard her voice, a thrill ran down Mustang’s spine. Not so impossible, after all.  

“Oh?” he managed, trying to hide his overjoyed surprise.

“For several years, now, he’s been trying to convince me to find myself a husband and settle down,” she added, smirking. “I agreed to the dress on the condition that I be allowed to choose the accompanying mask.”

 At some point, Mustang hardly knew when, their walk had slowed to a complete stop. He took the opportunity to lean into her personal space, on the pretext of examining her intricate mask more closely. Along the top, where the edge of mask rested against her hairline, the thin filaments of decorative metal curved into a delicate pattern that resembled a tiara.

“Have you figured it out, yet?” she asked softly, tilting her face up to look into his eyes.

“Of course,” Mustang murmured. Reaching out, he ran one forefinger over the gilded design at the pinnacle of her mask. “The White Queen. I ought to have guessed at once.”

“For a moment there, I thought I could still win,” Lieutenant Hawkeye replied with a gentle laugh.

“Win?” Mustang echoed, dumbfounded.

“The general and I had a bet,” Hawkeye explained. “I was certain you wouldn’t recognize me in this costume, if we happened to cross paths tonight. And he was certain that you _would_. Although, I believe he cheated by arranging for us to dance together,” she mused.

“He’s not exactly known for playing fair,” Mustang chuckled.

“Maybe I can still argue my case. When _did_ you realize it was me?” Hawkeye asked, tilting her head slightly.

“I’m ashamed to admit I wasn’t entirely sure until you spoke,” he confessed. “But I started to _suspect_ when I got you out onto the dance floor.”

“Aren’t you supposed to claim you’d know me anywhere?” she teased.

“In my defense, I couldn’t see your eyes properly, since you kept turning your head away. And I’ve never seen you wear your hair like this,” he protested, gently tweaking a soft blonde curl. In a slightly lower voice, he added: “And it’s been a _very_ long time since I last saw you wear a dress.”

Hawkeye felt the heat of her blush, and prayed that it wouldn’t be noticeable in the semi-darkness.

“I suppose you have a point,” she said, touching the ends of her curls self-consciously. She was pleased that her voice sounded steady, even if her pulse was much faster than usual. “Catalina was thrilled when I asked her to help me get ready.”

Mustang laughed aloud.

“I’ll just bet she was. Didn’t she come tonight, then?”

“Can you pick _her_ out of a crowd?” Hawkeye challenged, gesturing toward the brightly lit hall ahead of them. Their slow circuit of the gardens had taken them around to the opposite side of the building, and a little more personal space between them would probably be a good idea right about now, she thought.

“Unless she’s introduced to me under a false name and wearing a mask covering most of her face,” Mustang mumbled in a disgruntled way.

But he obeyed, following Hawkeye over to one of the windows so that they could observe the crowd indoors without having to re-enter the building just yet. Now that he had her to himself, he didn’t particularly feel like giving her back.

Scanning the sea of black and white silks, satins and gauzes adorned by sequins, feathers and jewels, Roy pursed his lips in thought.

“There; next to the bar,” he said triumphantly after a moment. Hawkeye blinked in surprise. “In the black dress with the feathery things along the skirt,” he went on. “Which, by the way, makes a perfect foil for your costume – dark, frothy and daring to your classic, sleek white.”

“Should I be offended that you recognized _her_ from across a crowded room but couldn’t be sure of _me_ when I was standing right in front of you?” Hawkeye asked, only half-joking. Mustang drew her arm through his, gently leading her back into the garden again.

“Catalina is much more... _exuberant_ than you are,” he said, a little defensively. “She stands out in a crowd. Plus, her mask is even smaller than mine and practically transparent. And then there’s the fact that the two of you are the youngest women here tonight. It really wasn’t much of a challenge.”

Hawkeye was still frowning slightly. Impulsively, Mustang caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

“I meant to say so earlier,” he murmured against her knuckles. “You look beautiful tonight.”

“Sir,” she admonished, looking around quickly to be sure no one was nearby.

“There’s no need to call me ‘sir.’ Is there, ‘ _Elizabeth_?’”

“Someone else here might’ve recognized me,” she retorted, swatting him lightly.

“You worry far too much,” he replied. But he released her hand, allowing her to tuck it back into the crook of his arm as they resumed their walk. “It’s not exactly common knowledge that Grumman has a granddaughter, let alone that she’s in the military,” he added after a moment.

“ _Precisely_.”

Mustang shot her a quick look. And cursed the damned mask that hid her expression from him.

“He _was_ serious, wasn’t he?” he asked, beginning to doubt again. “This isn’t some elaborate ruse Grumman threw together just because he wanted you on bodyguard duty for the evening - right?”

“No, it’s not a ruse,” Riza replied, smiling faintly. “Technically Catalina is on guard duty tonight. Although it looks as though she’s busy guarding the bar from wealthy single men at the moment,” she chuckled.

“Taking one for the team. A noble endeavor,” Roy quipped, smiling in spite of himself. “So…why didn’t either of you tell me before now?”

“Honestly? I thought you already knew,” Riza replied softly. “It wasn’t until he actually introduced me as his granddaughter that I realized he’d never told you about our relationship.”

“No, _that_ I would have remembered,” Roy chuckled.

They walked on in silence for another moment as Mustang processed this new information.

“Is it something either of you prefer to be kept under wraps?” he finally asked, delicately. Hawkeye just smiled.

“No, not really. We just found it more convenient to keep our personal and professional lives separate whenever possible.”

Meaning that they each preferred she never be put into a position where she could be used against him, or vice versa, and that each would still be able to freely gather information the other might not have access to. If no one knew of their connection, then no one would suspect familial partiality on either of their parts.

_It’s as if Grumman has been taking lessons from my aunt,_ Mustang thought.

“And the pseudonym?” he asked. Hadn’t she gone by ‘Elizabeth’ the time they’d worked with Madame Christmas too? Grumman must have gotten that idea from her as well.

“Makes it easier for me to play the part he needs me to play at functions like this,” Riza explained softly. “The name ‘Elizabeth Grumman’ is less conspicuous than my own.” She studied his profile for a moment, calculating. “You must have other questions,” she prompted at last.

They both knew she wouldn’t have even _alluded_ to his curiosity unless she was willing to indulge it.

“More than I can fully articulate at the moment,” he acknowledged. Was this a one-time offer? If he let this moment pass, would she ever give him the answers he sought? “I’m not keeping you from your duties, am I?” he asked lightly as the building loomed into view again.

“I think I can be spared for the space of another dance or two,” she smiled, understanding at once what he hadn’t said aloud. “Colonel? I’m sure I don’t have to explain this to you, but…you know that if you _did_ have any questions for me, you’ve only to ask.”

Strange, really, the way Hawkeye’s gentle smile made Mustang feel as if he’d downed several bottles of champagne rather than a single glass.

“Well, then,” he replied, giddy and breathless all at once. “Let’s begin with this question: would you like to dance?”

“I’d love to,” Hawkeye murmured.

Mustang’s mouth curved into his customary smirk, but his eyes softened in the way they only ever did when he looked at her.

“After you, then, ‘ _Elizabeth_ ,’” he said, placing his hand on the small of her back. As they ascended the steps that led back into the dance hall, his hand drifted slightly southward.

“Careful, Colonel Mustang,” Hawkeye said warningly. “Whatever would my grandfather say if he saw you now?”

“My apologies,” Mustang chuckled, and moved his wandering hands to a less precarious position.

 

Unbeknownst to either one, General Grumman smiled approvingly at them from his place in the shadows.

“It’s only a matter of time, my dear,” he murmured, taking note of Hawkeye’s coy smile and Mustang’s smug answering grin. “I’ll have him as a grandson-in-law yet!”

**Author's Note:**

> For The Consulting Alchemist, who requested that Riza and Roy see each other in formal wear for the first time at some military gala/party.


End file.
